


Band-Aid

by essgeekay



Category: Captain Planet and the Planeteers
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, Planeteers, Planeteers in College, Rating May Change, Wheeler-Centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-02-10 18:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essgeekay/pseuds/essgeekay
Summary: Wheeler is a broke college dropout who lacks direction. But when a strange ad catches his eye for a guitarist wanted for a local band at a small Liberal Arts college, it may just be the push he needs to change his future.





	1. The Beginning

It all started when Wheeler was riding his skateboard to work on an unusually sweltering September day. He had been working the night shift as a custodian at Turner Pyle University just outside of his native Brooklyn for about 3 semesters now. The liberal arts college was small and known for housing a lot of foreign students, and way out of Wheeler’s price range when it came to tution. Not that he was ever serious about college anyway. He couldn’t exactly go anywhere after he had dropped out his senior year of high school anyway.

 

For a bougie arts school in the middle of New York City, the pay was pretty lousy, but sweeping and waxing the floors of a select few buildings a night wasn’t too bad. He just didn’t have any side gigs at the moment, so his cashflow was a bit thin. He’d barely been able to scrape up the rent for him and his ma this past month. Even if Wheeler wasn’t a student at TPU, he knew the campus probably better than anybody since he could see it in all its emptiness at night without his nose in a book or rushing to get to class. He had access to every building on campus, every classroom, lab, and supply closet. So when hundreds of flyers sprung up all around the campus seemingly overnight, it certainly caught his attention. He snatched one up, reading the bolded capital letters printed on pale purple paper.

 

_ I NEED YOU TO JOIN MY BAND _

_ MEET AT HOPE ISLAND MUSIC THURSDAY NIGHT _

 

He crumpled it up, shaking his head.  _ What a waste of paper _ , he thought, before continuing his ride towards the computer science building. He rolled to a stop in front of the building when another flyer caught his eye:

 

_ BE IN A BAND, MAKE SOME MONEY _

_ MEET AT HOPE ISLAND MUSIC THURSDAY NIGHT _

 

He wasn’t exactly desperate; if he could get through the next month then his cousin could set him up with a seasonal job down the line somewhere. And in any case, he hadn’t picked up his guitar in years, probably since he had left his parents’ place and gotten his own apartment. He opened the door and walked inside, relishing the feeling of the cooling air conditioning on his skin.

 

A flash of pale purple caught his eye on the bulletin board fixed on the wall.

 

_ GUITARIST WANTED _

_ MEET AT HOPE ISLAND MUSIC THURSDAY NIGHT _

  
“This is just spooky,” he muttered to himself, yanking the paper off the board. He’d never even heard of this “Hope Island Music” place. Taking a quick look over his shoulder, he pulled out his phone, typing the name into his GPS.  _ It’s worth a shot _ , he thought.  


	2. Hope Island Music

When Wheeler arrived on Thursday night, there was already someone there. One very imposing someone. He was one of the foreign students; Wheeler recognized around campus leaving the library late at nights, and well, it was hard not to notice him. He was tall, only a little taller than Wheeler, but he carried himself at least a foot taller than he actually was. His dark skin was rich and smooth, almost impossibly so, and there was a certain regality about him that was impossible to notice.  _ Probably a future lawyer _ , Wheeler often thought when he saw him, with an inescapable sense of resentment. 

 

“Hello,” the guy’s voice broke through the silence of the store. It was as deep as his complexion, and though soft, commanding. “Do you work here?” he asked. “I am Kwame.” He had the slightest of accents, which made him even more intimidating. 

 

“Uh, no. I just, uh...I saw this,” Wheeler said as he clumsily pulled out one of the flyers he had pulled down from his pocket. 

 

“I see,” said Kwame. It was decisive, though Wheeler couldn’t tell what he was deciding exactly.

 

“So, uh...is this why you’re here too?” Wheeler smoothed out the pale purple paper, showing it to Kwame. 

 

“Yes. I would like to join the band. It seems the owner of this store is not here, however.”

 

“Yeah. Guess not.” 

 

Kwame had already turned away from Wheeler, opening a textbook and studying the inside. Wheeler looked around the store, taking it all in for the first time. It was colorful, filled with various genres of records and CDs, and some tapes, though who really cared about those anymore. House plants of varying sizes were scattered about the small space. A raised wooden platform in the back served as a stage, with a single tattered couch in front of it serving as audience seating. Wheeler walked to the stage and pulled a stool from the side onto the platform. He sat down and pulled up his guitar from its case and began to absently strum. A thought popped into his head.

 

“Hey, what do you play?”

 

“Hmm?” Kwame asked without looking up.

 

“Your instrument. What is it?”

 

“Drums.” 

 

“Oh, nice. I play guitar.”  _ Yeah no shit _ .

 

The bell from the front door tingled. Wheeler looked up. Kwame did not. 

 

“Hello?” asked a small voice from the front of the store. High pitched with a European lilt. Its owner came into view.

 

“Uh, h-hello,” replied Wheeler, his guitar slipping slightly out of his hands. He quickly adjusted his grip. 

 

She was one of the most gorgeous babes he had ever seen. Small but not tiny, curvy in all the right places. Her blonde hair was gathered up in a lazy ponytail, and her blue eyes pierced into his all the way across the room. 

 

“Hi,” she said, looking cautiously at Wheeler, then Kwame. “I am here about the band? I am Galinka - Linka. I saw this...I didn’t know.” She pulled out a similar flyer to the one Wheeler had brought. 

 

“Yeah that’s why we’re here,” said Wheeler, holding up his guitar a little. “Owner’s not here yet.”

 

“And the door was just...unlocked?” Linka asked, sounding even more confused than before.

 

“Well, I - uh, Kwame?”

 

“Yes. The door was unlocked when I came in. I suspect the owner is here somewhere and is just waiting for all of us to show up.” 

 

“All of us? Who else is coming?” asked Linka, stepping inside a little. 

 

“Beats me. I don’t even know if there’ll be any other guitarists or what. Hey what do you play?”

 

“Huh? Oh, nothing. I sing.” Her accent clicked the -ing sound deliciously. 

 

“You sing? In Russian or English?” Wheeler asked. 

 

“Excuse me?” She sounded offended. Oops.

 

“I, uh, I just meant - well your accent is - “

 

“Just an accent, is it not? Where are you from exactly? New Jersey?” She shot back.

 

“Look, I’m sorry, your accent’s nice, very sexy - “

 

“ _ Excuse me? _ ” She looked downright furious. Wheeler noticed Kwame pressing his lips together to avoid smiling. 

“Uh, I just meant - you know, it’s nice. Very cultured, sophisticated, the works - “

 

“I am Kwame. It is nice to meet you, Galinka.” Kwame extended his hand to her. 

 

“Just Linka is fine. Who is this American?”

 

“This American is Jake. But call me Wheeler,” Wheeler interjected.

 

“Okay, Jake-but-call-me-Wheeler,” she said with a giggle. God she was adorable. 

 

The door jingled again. A tiny Asian girl peeked her head around the corner. She pushed her glasses up her nose, looking down at her phone and then up at the scene in front of her. 

 

“Hiya!” Wheeler called to her, making her jump.

 

“H-hello. Is this,” she looked down again, “Hope Island Music?”

 

“Yes it is. I am Kwame. This is Linka and Wheeler. What is your name?”

 

“Oh. I am - my name is Gi.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Gi!” Wheeler chirped, making her jump again. Linka elbowed him in the side. “You play guitar?” He asked, gesturing to the case in her hand.

 

“Oh, no. Bass.”

 

“Cool. Looks like we’ve got a whole band. Now all we need is a -” Wheeler was cut off by the tingle of the bell again. The four turned to look at the imposing woman who had just entered.

 

“Hello,” she trilled, her voice like music. She was tall, taller than any woman Wheeler had ever seen, with honey and mocha skin and black hair that trailed down to her waist. She wore all purple, the exact same color as her flyers, and even from the back of the room Wheeler could smell the strong - but pleasant - scent of lavender.

 

“Thank you all for coming,” she continued. “My name is Gaia.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma - Ti is in this don't worry


End file.
